


Blue

by MdeCarabas



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Season 11 Spoilers, written before season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:19:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MdeCarabas/pseuds/MdeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four months after getting captured by Locus, Washington finally gets rescued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue

When Washington comes back to consciousness, it’s to the sound of far off screaming and distance gunfire.  He can hear someone desperately screaming his name, but when he lifts his head to see who it might be, his nerves light up in complete agony. He slumps to the ground as a high-pitched whine makes its way out his throat.

There’s blood everywhere.

There’s blood _everywhere_ , soaking into shirt and staining the grey material rust-red.  There are puddles of it just pooling at his side, gushing out of his body in worrisome quantities. _Not good,_ Washington thinks hazily, _Too much blood._

And then: _I’m not going to make it._

He’s seen plenty of people die in his time. Some of them were enemies and some of them were friends, but none of them ever faced death the same way. Some of them raged at the heavens and some of them slipped peacefully into the night, smiling at him with their last expression. Some of them were defiant to the very end, believing in their own immortality and scoffing at the idea that they could ever be defeated.

Most of them never saw it coming.

But none of them, not a single solitary one of them have ever greeted death dispassionately. So he doesn’t know how he expected to feel when he died, but he’s definitely thrown by the fact that he doesn’t feel anything at all.

He has just a moment to feel sad about that before Tucker breaks the door down.

 

When he wakes again, he’s in some sort of medical bay and the pain in his shoulder is nothing but a dull and distant memory. A medic appears by his bedside and smiles, surprised to see him awake. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Agent Washington,” she says easily.

“What happened to me?” he says groggily, thoughts fuzzy from whatever drugs they currently have in him. His limbs are so weak that he can barely lift a pinky, much less form an attack, but he eyes the room anyway, searching for a weapon or any sign of guards.

“You lost a lot of blood,” the medic explains kindly, lifting up his bed sheet to poke at his wound. She carefully peels back the bandage on his shoulder, movements precise and professional and exactly the kind of thing you’d want in a medical professional.

Wash wishes Doc were here instead.

“It was touch and go for a while,” she continues, “Whoever stabbed you definitely knew what they were doing—you would have bled out in minutes if the Sergeant hadn’t gotten to you in time. You almost did anyway.”

 _Sarge was there?_ Wash wants to ask, but his eyelids are falling shut against his will and he’s suddenly so tired he could sleep for a week.  He doesn’t remember that. He doesn’t remember much of anything except a hint of aqua and the sound of someone screaming his name.

“You should get some rest,” the medic says sympathetically, “Your body is still trying to recover from all of your injuries.” She grins back at him. “But at least you’ll be able to recover in the comfort of your own private room. We wouldn’t normally do this sort of thing, but, well, Sergeant Tucker insisted.”

A jolt of familiarity goes through him at the name.

 _Tucker, Tucker, Tucker,_ he thinks wistfully. It would be so good to see him again after four months of near-hell. But she couldn’t be talking about the same person because his Tucker was only a Private.

The last thing he hears before the world goes dark again is the medic saying, “Your friends will be so happy to see that you’re okay.”

 

The first thing he hears when he wakes up the next morning is a voice saying, “He just got stabbed and you’re going to steal his fucking jello. Congratulations, you’ve just reached a new low.”

The voice sounds familiar to him and he wonders if that means he is dreaming.

“Sorry, Simmons,” a second voice says sarcastically, “I guess I didn’t realize that a guy who isn’t even _awake_ was going to mind if I ate his lunch. I’ll be _sure_ to make my apologies when he wakes up.”

It sounds…the voice sounds like Grif, Washington thinks in total shock. It sounds like Grif and Simmons, squabbling over inconsequential things like they always do, and Washington upgrades his theory to include auditory hallucinations brought upon by drugs. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, not if it means he’ll be confronted by the truth.

“If the two of you don’t quit your bitchin’ then I’m going to be forced to—“

And that’s enough. Wash can’t take it any longer, because Sarge got executed two months ago, only a few weeks after Donut and a month after Doc. He opens his eyes and stares at the ghost in front of him. “S-Sarge?” he blurts out in his confusion.

“Agent Washington, you’re awake!” Simmons shouts joyfully.

Everyone jumps up from their chairs and clambers over to stand beside his bed. Well, not everyone, but three-fourths of the reds make for a sweeter sight than he could have possibly imagined years ago.

“Fuck, dude, you’re actually awake,” Grif says in amazement, “I thought we were gonna have to tell Caboose that you got adopted by a nice family with a farm. I can’t believe you actually made it.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot. Wash here wouldn’t succumb to anything as stupid as a knife wound,” Sarge says proudly, clapping a hand down on Washington’s good shoulder. “It would take something far more interesting to take him down, like the offspring of a half-shark, half-gorilla super mutant who mated with an evil cyborg.”

“That’s racist,” Simmons mutters.

Wash looks around the room in bewilderment. “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on,” he says plaintively, completely frazzled.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sarge says with a grin, “Agent Washington, you’ve just been rescued.”

 

Caboose, Doc and Donut show up shortly after the other three leave, so Washington figures they must be coming in shifts. Caboose immediately bounds over and beams down at him, hovering at his side. “Washington! I am so happy that you are still here! Grif and Simmons said that you were thinking about joining Freckles on the farm and I was worried that you would leave without saying goodbye.”

Wash smiles fondly at him. “I couldn’t leave you behind, could I?” he says nicely, “Who else is going to teach you to make sandwiches without setting the kitchen on fire?”

“No one,” Caboose says happily.

Wash turns to look at the other two with eyes that are unexpectedly wet. The two of them along with Sarge had been his only comfort while the four of them were in captivity. They were the only things that kept him going. Whenever he was ready to give in or give up or spill information about Project Freelancer that he and Epsilon had kept secret, he would look over to the three of them and he would keep strong for their sake.

He _had_ to, because none of them had ever prepared for anything like Locus. They had been through a lot in their lives—more than most—but they weren’t ready for long-term imprisonment and they definitely weren’t ready for the threat of torture. So just like before, it became his job to keep them safe and his job to reassure them whenever their spirits flagged.

A part of him stopped fighting the minute he thought they were dead.

“What happened to Locus?” Washington asks tiredly. He has the feeling he already knows, because people like Locus don’t succumb to action-movie heroics. They don’t _die_. They live their lives in perfect happiness, always one step ahead of the people who want them dead. And then, at the end of their lives, they die not from justice or revenge, but from a simple mistake of their own making.

“He escaped while we were in the middle of rescuing you,” Doc says despondently, confirming his theory. “We don’t know where he’s gone.” He smiles weakly, lacking the hope and cheer that it would have had in the past. “But we all agreed that it was more important that we save you.”

_So it’s not over, not yet._

“And Tucker? Where is he?” Washington asks finally, suddenly wanting to see him so badly it makes his bones ache. “Is he going to be showing up soon?”

The others eye each other skeptically, arguing with their eyes over who was going to give him the news. “Um, I think Commander Kimball called him into a meeting,” Donut says reluctantly. “But I’m sure he’s going to be here as soon as he’s done. He was really worried about you when you were gone!”

But Washington waits for him all day and he never shows up.

 

His first clue that something is wrong with Tucker comes days later, when Wash is finally strong enough to eat with the others in the rudimentary mess hall set up near the barracks. He sits down at the chair left empty for him and looks at the sea of soldiers around them, searching for the one face that’s nowhere to be found.

“If you’re looking for Tucker, don’t fucking bother,” Grif says with a snort, stabbing at his freeze-dried mashed potatoes. “He never shows up when it’s time to hang out with the rest of us.”

“Uh, I think what Grif is trying to say,” Simmons interrupts carefully, “Is that Tucker is, uh…”

Simmons shifts, stumped for a second, and looks around the table for help.

“He’s just really busy with the troops,” Donut says, immediately jumping in with an explanation, “He doesn’t have a lot of time to just sit around and shoot the breeze with us. But we’re still cool! He never lets Felix or Kimball yell at us when we do something wrong.”

“He does not talk to us very much anymore,” Caboose says glumly, leaning into to Washington’s side.  “He didn’t even yell at me when I made him pigs in a blanket on his birthday. He just said thanks and got someone else to clean his sheets.” Caboose sighs tragically, “It wasn’t very fun. He didn’t even threaten to shoot me. I miss our old games.”

Wait, what?

He doesn't know what cocktail sausages have to do with bed sheets, but he knows Caboose, so he can guess.

“No no, but it’s okay though, right?” Simmons says excitedly, “Because Wash can fix it now—he’ll have Tucker back to his old self in no time!”

“If you say so,” Grif says skeptically, rolling his eyes, “But last I heard there’s no cure for being a raging douchebag, so good luck with that.”

 

His second clue comes later that same day, when he’s making his way back to the med-bay so that he can change his bandages.  There’s a couple of soldiers hanging out by the entrance, covered in bruises and nursing their wounds.

“Ugh, I think it’s sprained,” one says to the other, clutching his arm to his chest.

The other one eyes him doubtfully. “No fucking way,” she says scornfully, “He would never do anything that would put us out of commission for very long. You’re just bitching about nothing like you always do.”

“No, really,” the man whines, “It really fucking hurts. I don’t think I’ll be able to hold a weapon.”

“Well that’s what you fucking get for trying to play a prank on your commanding officer,” she says with a sneer. “Everyone knows Sergeant Tucker had his sense of humor surgically removed by some aliens in exchange for a glowing sword that only he could use.”

Wash halts mid-step, halfway through the door. “Wait, are you talking about _Lavernius_ Tucker?” Wash blurts out in total shock. Did Tucker really get promoted while he was gone? Why hadn’t anyone told him about it? And what’s all this about Tucker not having a sense of humor? With the exception of Wyoming, Washington’s never met anyone more likely to crack jokes at inappropriate moments.

“Shit, is that his name?” the woman says, snorting in derision. “I thought that was just what they programmed him to respond to. Who the fuck knew? Maybe he’s human after all.”

“Un-fucking-likely,” the man replies.

 

The third clue comes in the middle of the night, when Washington wakes from a nightmare to the soothing pressure of fingers running through his hair. The lights are off but the rest of his senses know exactly who it is, even if his eyes don’t, so he lets himself enjoy it while it lasts.

Lets it anchor him to the present and this room and this man.

As his heart slows and his breath evens out, he counts all the firsts that are happening right now. The first time they’ve been alone together in four months, the first time he’s felt a warm hip against his side and the first time he’s ever wanted to curl up in someone's lap and never let them go.

The first time he's been touched with anything approaching gentleness. The first time he’s ever felt someone kiss his fingers with everlasting tenderness, curling their palms together as if he were something precious. The first time he’s ever felt the same.

And he can’t even enjoy it, not with a mind filled with the bodies of his dead friends and the memory of pain and fear and loss. So instead, he closes his eyes and tilts his head into the touch, letting the comforting presence lull him back to sleep.

 

He doesn’t see so much as a hint of Tucker for the next couple of weeks. The only reason he knows he’s still alive is because the soldiers' stories get increasingly hard to ignore, until all anyone can talk about is the terrifying C.O. that's making everyone miserable.

If this is what ‘serious soldier’ looks like on Tucker, then Washington is sorry he ever wanted to make it happen.

 

Now that he’s feeling well enough to wander around the base by himself, the others slowly wean themselves from his side.  They still meet up all the time (with the exception of Tucker, who he’s still only seen from a distance) for lunch and dinner, but for the most part their responsibilities start taking up more of their time.

He doesn’t know how to deal with these new, more capable soldiers that look so much like his old friends. They’re all so much stronger than before and about ten times more confident in their abilities, but it makes Wash sad to realize that he wasn’t around to see it happen for himself.

He doesn’t know where he stands with them anymore. They don’t need him anymore, not like they used to. Tucker is their leader now and from what he can see, he’s doing a pretty damn good job with it, even if his methods aren’t exactly making him any friends. The recruits here seem to trust and respect the reds and blues, idolizing them and following them and asking their advice for every little thing. They’ve blossomed in his absence, and even though he’s proud of what they’ve accomplished, he no longer feels part of them the way he did before.

After four months imprisoned with the enemy, Washington no longer feels like he has a place with them.

But sitting around feeling sorry for himself isn’t going to solve anything, so Washington asks for some directions and goes to the training field to get himself fighting fit again.

The second he walks inside the room, he’s waylaid by a random soldier dressed in sweats and a tank top. 

“Holy shit, you’re Agent Washington,” the guy blurts out, staring at him in awe. “Fuck, we heard all about you ! Did you really put a gun to Agent Carolina’s head when she threatened Sergeant Tucker and the others?”

Wash nods hesitantly, slightly taken aback by the way the soldier was staring at him like he hung the stars. “I was their leader,” he says in bewilderment, “I wasn’t going to let her hurt any of them.”

“Shit, that’s ballsy as fuck, dude,” the guy says admiringly, “Everyone acts like they were terrified of her—she must have been a total nightmare! You must be a badass.”

“She’s not so bad when you get to know her,” Wash says defensively, “She just had a lot going on at the moment. She was dealing with some pretty traumatic things back then. We all were.”

“Yeah yeah, I getcha, we’ve all been there before,” he says dismissively, “But, like, you were the one who taught Sergeant Tucker everything he knows, right? That’s how they made it sound.”

Washington’s lips quirk up in amusement. Tucker never listened to a word he said, not until the very end. He was too stubborn for it, too set in his own lazy way of doing things. “No one teaches Tucker anything,” Wash says fondly, “Whatever he learned he picked up all on his own.”

“Still, I mean, could you…could you give me a couple of tips or something?“ the guy stammers, “Because I keep getting my ass handed to me at practice and I don’t know how much longer I can take the humiliation.” He winces and rubs at his side. “Or the bruises.”

For the first time since he was rescued, Washington feels the world slide into place. “I think I can manage that,” he says, pleased as punch.

 

They get a crowd around them after a while, as more and more soldiers wander up to ask Wash for some help. He does his best with all of them, but to be honest he doesn’t have to do much. Most of them are well trained and physically fit, fighting with a scrappy edge to them that’s reminiscent of the way the reds and blues like to handle things. But they could all benefit from the formal martial arts training the freelancers had to go through, so Washington does his best to teach them a couple of tricks.

It’s all going fine until Wash takes a renegade fist to his still healing shoulder.  He collapses to the floor in a white-hot burst of agony that nearly makes him black out. It’s not the worst pain he’s ever had to deal with in his life, but it still takes a moment to get it under control. When he finally does, he glances up to see Private Thompson on the ground, curled up in a ball and wheezing in pain. Tucker stands above him, fists clenched and face the picture of rage. He’s breathing hard and he’s practically shaking where he stands, and the strangest thought goes through Wash’s head as he watches everyone gaze at Tucker in horrified dismay.

_But you don’t even like me anymore._

Tucker’s eyes dart over to him, frantically flickering over his shoulders and face. And then finally, finally they meet his eyes and Washington gets to watch as they go dark and cold and bitter before his very eyes. “You’re a fucking idiot,” Tucker snaps and stalks off without another word.

Wash stumbles after him, pushing through the crowd of people while trying and failing not to jostle his shoulder even more. “Tucker, wait,” he says pleadingly, “Just hold on for a second, will you?”

Tucker comes to a halt, and then whirls around in the same angry motion. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a fucking war going on outside,” Tucker snarls, “And I can’t just sit on my ass and twiddle my thumbs and play around with the troops. Unlike you I actually have responsibilities.”

“I know that, I just—“

 “You’re all up in my face right now like I owe you money. What the fuck do you even want?”

There’s a lot of things he can say to that. _I want to know why you only visited me when I was asleep. I want to know why you stopped talking to all of your friends and why you push people away and why you always look so unhappy lately._   But none of that is what actually comes out.

“All I want to do is to talk to my friend,” Wash says softly.

Tucker’s face _crumbles_.

He hunches over like he’s just been punched in the gut, arms wrapped around himself in a mockery of a hug. He gasps for air, making these small broken noises that are like a steel knife in Washington’s heart, and he can no longer tell if the hurt he’s feeling is from the wound in his shoulder or the pain in his chest. Helplessly, Wash reaches out and pulls Tucker into him with his one good arm.

“Wash,” Tucker chokes out.

And then he says it again and again, sobbing Washington’s name into the crisp afternoon air. Just a steady stream of “ _Wash, Wash, Washington,_ ”murmured over and over like a prayer. Wash buries his hand in Tucker’s hair and pulls him in gently until Tucker’s lips are mouthing the words against his neck.

Tucker pushes into his body like he’s trying to move in, backing them up against a wall like they’re not in public, like people wouldn’t be able to see them if they opened a door or glanced down the hall. But Washington can’t find it in him to be concerned, not when Tucker is finally looking at him and talking to him and acting like he cares again.

Not when Washington is finally home.

 “You should have fucking been here,” Tucker says furiously, breath hot against his skin. “I was supposed to be the one arguing with you about drills and telling you to go easy on the soldiers and sitting across from you at the breakfast table every fucking day, but I couldn’t do that because _you weren’t here_.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Wash whispers into his hair, “I’m here now. You saved me.”

"No, fuck you! _Fuck you,”_ Tucker hisses feverishly, clenching his fists in Washington’s shirt, “We got everyone else out. We got Doc and Donut and Sarge and fucking _Lopez,_ but you were still trapped in there and it wasn’t fucking fair.”

“You got me out in the end,” Wash says helplessly, “That’s all that matters.”

But Tucker doesn’t seem to hear or care. He’s trembling in Washington’s arms, body overflowing with emotion he had kept hidden for so long. “It wasn’t fucking fair,” Tucker repeats angrily, “You were supposed to be here with us.”

You were supposed to be here with _me_ , he means. Washington can hear it as clear as a bell; can practically hear Tucker saying it in a voice aching with grief and regret, trembling with a terrible guilt that never went away.

“But you weren’t,” Tucker says bitterly, pulling away from his hold to stare at him with a look of betrayal, “You weren’t here because you fucking abandoned us.” He backs away, head shaking unconsciously as he moves to put some distance between them.

“I was trying to save you,” Wash says desperately, reaching out in vain for Tucker’s hand.  “All I ever wanted to do was keep all of you safe. That’s all I was trying to do.”

“Save it,” Tucker says, “Because I don’t want to fucking hear it.”


End file.
